Borrow Love and Go
by The Orange Lady
Summary: Sometimes in the early 1930's Dean Winchester keeps the Roadhouse for Ellen, and a polite weirdo hobo makes him make breakfast, make up the sofa and fall in love. Cas may or may not be from an other time, or an angel for that matter. (AU, slow burn)
1. Chapter I: Hard Time Killin' Floor

**CHAPTER I: HARD TIME KILLIN' FLOOR**

* * *

_In which there are introductions and a very polite hobo._

* * *

Dean Winchester wakes up in the morning and knows two things. His name, and where he is. The rest comes to him slowly, but that can easily be explained by the amount of alcohol he drank the night before.

Flagstaff, Arizona, is a tiny, dirt hole of a town by the high way westbound. But Dean likes it there. He and his brother didn't grown up there, so neither of them can honestly call it their home-town, but they've both spent enough years in the place to get to know half of those who lives there, and the names of the remaining half. The town is poor enough to not have many big bankers go caput in the Great Crash of '29, but not poor enough for most farmers and other people to get their land repossessed. The townsfolk are mostly unscathed by the economical plague raging through the country, but a steady stream of Okies and other people from the East goes through the town. Barely anyone stays for longer than a week, but Dean gets to see most of them, as he runs one of the two bars in town, the Roadhouse. He pities them, but there isn't much he can do for them, apart from kind words and serving them booze if they can afford it. They are grateful when they come, they down their beers and then they go and never come back. Dean wonders where they end up, if the lives they dream of in California really is any better than the lives they have left at home. He'll never know.

But this one day, a weather-beaten stranger walks into the bar and says:

"Do you remember me?"

Dean gives him a once over, while polishing a glass. The man is skinny, with hollow eyes, and wears an unshapely beige coat and no hat. Although it is obvious the man has been living rough, he looks oddly neat. He looks familiar, but in an old photo-album sort of way, but Dean can't say that he's ever seen this man before.

"Can't say that I do. You wanna order, sir?"

But the skinny man falls quiet. The blue eyes goes unfocused. Dean has seen that thousand-yard stare before. It's common these days. Heartbreak is what it is.

"So what's it gonna be, mister? We've run out of ham sandwiches and the decent wine, but anything else is still on the menu. What do you want? Beer, bourbon?"

"I… I haven't got any money."

"Uh huh. Then you're either gonna leave this establishment, or you'll take a glass of water and you'll like it so much you won't bother any other customer for anything stronger. Capisce?" The hobo nods deeply, and Dean gives him a tall glass of water with a slice of lemon in it.

"Thank you," the hobo says and takes the glass with both hands.

It's a rule at the Roadhouse that people has to show him the money before he'll even bring out their drink. Too many are trying to bum drinks off of him these days. Dean knows perfectly well why, God help them all, but he still has to check if they can pay up.

The haggard man sits down with his glass of water at the table by the back door. The look on his face if so sad that Dean can't help it. He fills another glass up, a small one, mind, and sets it down in front of him.

"Here, have a beer." The man looks up at him with gaping mouth. Dean finds himself thinking that he looks younger than he first thought. In his thirties, but hell, almost boyish when he's surprised like that, in a rugged, messed up kind of way.

"But I don't have any money…"

"It's on the house. Can't have a patron look as sad as you did just now. It's bad for business."

"Thank you."

The hobo stays for the rest of the evening. Dean keeps an eye on him, but he just sits there and finishes off his glass in the slowest record-breaking time Dean has ever witnessed. He does recognize him, he realizes, but it's like a vague childhood memory, and he can't place from where and when it comes. He would ask Sam, if he was still around.

Dean closes the Roadhouse up at one in the morning when he has convinced Rufus to drag his sorry ass homewards. The chairs go up on the tables. He'll sweep the floors in the morning, it's too late in the night for him to break a sweat cleaning.

Dean likes it late at night. The last few hours when the patrons go drunk and drowsy to stagger home, one by one, until he's the only one left, are the best. It's a certain kind of calm. In the mornings Dean whistles along with the tunes on the radio, but in night time he just hums by himself. Skip James, Blind Gary Davis, or whatever Rufus and Bobby were playing last he swung by the scrapyard. He's still humming along to Hard Time Killing Floor when he swings bags of trash into the dumpster out back. He almost has a heart attack when something moves in the corner of his eye. But it's only the polite hobo form earlier, sitting hunched over beside the stairs.

"What are you still doing here? Bar's closed."

"Sorry. I don't have anywhere else to go."

Dean weighs his options. On one hand Ellen's been telling him to never ever bring anybody that ain't family into the bar after closing hours unless he's going to sleep with them. But on the other hand this man looks so tired and helpless he probably couldn't do jack-shit even if he wanted to.

"You know what? Come on in. I ain't gonna let you anywhere close to the booze, but I've got a sofa upstairs you can crash on tonight. How does that sound?"

If Dean doesn't know better, he'd think the hobo would start crying at any second.

"I'm going to take that as a 'yes, please'. So, what's your name? Can't let complete strangers into my house and home, if you get me."

"We're not… My name is Cas."

"Cas, that short for something?"

"Castiel. Castiel, uh, Novak is my whole name." Dean catches the lie, but that's okay. Surnames aren't that important after all.

"Oh, uh huh, Cas it is then. Sounds biblical. Are you a religious man, Cas?"

"No, not particularly so. Not any more."

"Good, 'cause that shit ain't gonna fly around me," Dean says and pulls him off of the ground. The hobo might look small, but he sure is heavy. "My name is Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you. Now, get your ass inside before I change my mind."

Cas didn't look too big to begin with, but once he has peeled off his overcoat he looks like he hasn't had a warm nutritious meal for quite a while. All in all, he looks remarkably neat for a hobo, with his once-black suit, tie and almost-white shirt. Dean sits him down on the sofa upstairs and talks at him, only expecting answers now and again.

"Cas, you got any family? Has the wife thrown your sorry ass out, is that why you're here?"

"No. I used to have an extensive family, but not any longer."

"Hard times, huh," Dean shrugs.

"Yes. How about you?"

"Yeah, no. I got my brother Sam, but he's up in Palo Alto getting an education. Him being the bright kid in the family, got himself a scholarship just like that. Free ride, and all that."

"Your parents, are they still alive?"

"Nope, ain't got no parents left. Mother died when me and Sammy were kids, and father ditched us as soon as Ellen had made clear she'd rather take care of us than to see us fucked up by that asshole."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I sure ain't. This is Ellen's bar, she's letting me take care of it for her. As long as you don't piss her off, she's the best evil step-mother in the world."

"She's alive? Where is Ellen now? Does she live here as well?"

"Does it look like a woman lives here?" Dean shrugs. It's not that his rooms are filthy or anything, they just don't have that final touch a woman always gives a home. No tablecloths or embroidered cushions and the like. "No, she lives just out of town. But right now Ellen's up in Michigan with her daughter. Jo's getting settled at an art school if you can believe it. Hey, you want something to eat before we turn in?"

"No, I can't ask for…"

"…'Cause I'm gonna make some omelet for me, and I can just throw in some extra eggs for you. Easy-peasy." Normally he doesn't eat this late at night, but he can see that the hobo is in dire need of some grub. Ellen wouldn't forgive him if he let the man go to sleep hungry to wake up starved to death. And he's right: A light is lit in Cas's eyes at the mention of omelet.

"Thank you."

Dean hums as he heats up the stove and flips the eggs, eerily conscious of Cas' unwavering stare. The hobo eats his omelet in a bite or two, and when he's done, Dean pushes over his own on Cas' plate. The second serving takes him longer. His eyes flutter sleepily and he jerks a couple of times to keep himself awake. If he was a kid it would be endearing, and Dean wouldn't hesitate to sweep him up and put him to bed.

* * *

_This is going to be a long one... This is my first story set in an alternative universe, so bear with me! I'd love to hear what you think, please comment!_


	2. Chapter II: Rock Me

**CHAPTER II: ROCK ME**

* * *

_In which there is everydays, personal hygiene and the flu._

* * *

Dean wakes up at nine, just in time to clean up himself up and get to the market on Downey Street. He needs more lemons for fancy drinks, and he's sensing that he'll need more pickles than are in stock. He dresses quickly in beige slacks and blue shirt, washes his face and drinks a glass of water. The hobo is asleep, lying still on the sofa like a dead man, with his hands crossed over his chest. Dean figures that it'll be okay to leave him there by himself for a little while.

The morning is fresh and cool. He's almost alone in the store, so picking out the lemons and jars of pickles is quick. Because he smiles so prettily at the young lady behind the counter, she lets him have previous day's newspaper for free. He whistles on his way back, Children of Zion by Blind Gary Davis. It's going to be a good day, he can feel it already. Cas is still asleep when he comes back.

Dean starts cleaning up the Roadhouse from last night, sweeping the floors, picking up dropped napkins, polishing the bar top, and so on.

At eleven, he climbs the stairs again and dresses for work. Dean takes care of his appearance and dresses up nicely before opening the bar. Ellen doesn't mind what he's wearing as long as he's all tidy, but he takes pride in looking good for the job. Every day he irons his shirts and pants, and makes damned sure his waistcoat haven't got any stains. When he's all dressed in brown pants, striped shirt and waistcoat, he whips out the brylcreem and starts working on his hair. Up and slightly side-ways, just like Dad used to.

"You look good," someone rasps from behind him. Dean jerks and almost messes up his hair.

"And don't I know it," Dean replies and fires off his patented heartbreaker smile into the mirror. "Thank you."

"I should be thanking you for letting me sleep here and giving me dinner," Cas says. "I am very grateful. But I should probably go now."

"No! I mean, you don't have to. You can hang around for a little longer if you feel like it. Stay a couple of more hours, and there's lunch in it for you."

Cas stays.

* * *

It's a calm afternoon. It's burning hot outside, but in the bar it's cool. Dean's feeling shaky, like he's got a cold coming on. Some of the regulars come in as usual, there are some others who buy a beer, some pickles or a shot of bourbon, but that's it. Cas sits at the far end of the counter with his elbows on the top. He's mostly silent and just watches Dean work. Dean feeds him a sandwich at two o'clock, and expects him to leave soon after that, but he doesn't. Dean wonders how long he's going to stay like this, but he doesn't ask. It's strangely nice.

A man storms in at five sharp. He's got the strangest haircut in town and an absolutely filthy cover-all on. If Dean didn't know him, he'd call the asylum and make them pick up their latest escaped patient.

"Change the radio station right fucking now."

"Hello Ash, nice to see you Ash. Why, Ash, I'm fine today, how nice of you to ask. Would you like a beer, Ash?"

"Dean, I ain't kidding. Babe-fucking-Ruth and the Yankees are playing against the Athletics in two seconds." The man smirks and adds: "And I don't want a beer, I want two. And you better put som Jaeger in 'em too. You should know me better than that, son."

"I'm sorry I do." But Dean smiles and changes the station on the radio. The game has already begun.

Dean isn't particularly interested in baseball to be true. If there's any sport he's interested in it's boxing, but that kind of loses it's spark when you have to listen to it on the radio.

"Who is that?" Cas asks.

"Babe Ruth is the greatest baseball player in the history of the world. He's got the record with sixty homeruns in one year. The man's a living legend. How have you not heard of him?"

"No, I mean, who is that man?" He points at Ash.

"Oh, that's Ash. He's the mechanic in town. Ellen took care of him the way she took care of my brother and me. Results may vary, as you can see. But Ash's the local genius, so if you need anything at all repaired, you just go to him. But just because he's Mr. Einstein doesn't mean that he's not an asshole." Ash flips him off without turning around.

Cas doesn't listen to the game, at least it doesn't look like he does. Instead he sits still by the counter and watches Dean chop lemons and pour beer. It's strangely reassuring.

* * *

Cas is still there when it's closing time. He fell asleep sometime after eleven o'clock, and Dean didn't have the heart to wake him up. But he can't sleep at the counter the whole night, so Dean pats his shoulder until he stirs awake.

"Wakey-wakey, sunshine! You wanna move somewhere comfier for the night?"

Cas looks dazed for a while, smiling mildly at him in a way that makes Dean a bit weak at the knees, but sobers up pretty quickly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep. I'll go right n-"

"Why don't ya take out the trash for me?" Dean says. It's not really a question. "You can stay on the sofa one more night, no problem."

Closing up takes half the usual time when they're two. Cas doesn't only take out the trash, he helps sweeping the floors and washes dozens glasses. It's great to have some help, especially since Dean has started coughing and wondering if he doesn't have a fever after all. And he doesn't mind sharing the silent after-closing hour with Cas, since he shuts up. It's nice.

They brush their teeth together that night. Cas gets his own brand new tooth brush, because he doesn't have one. He says thank you so sincerely, Dean almost chokes on his toothpaste. If Dean throws another blanket over Cas when he is pretty sure the other man is asleep, there's nothing to it.

* * *

Dean coughs himself awake the next morning. His lungs feel raw, like they lost a fight with a lawnmower sometime during the night. But he'll feel better once he's had his cup of joe, he reasons.

Over breakfast, Dean's mouth-to-brain filter stops working, but for once he doesn't regret it. Cas woke up before him and made coffee and fried eggs sunny side up, just the way Dean likes them. He blames that for losing track on his tongue.

"So, Cas. I want to pay you for helping out last night. I'm thinking that maybe you could stick around and do that for a while?" he says. He hasn't given it much thought to be honest, but he knows he means it as he says it. Cas gets something holy in his eyes, like Dean just told him he was the good savior Jesus Christ.

"Thank you. Yes. I would like that."

Which brings Dean to point number two on his list. This one is not as spontanious, as it has been on top of his mind since he first laid eyes on Cas.

"Look, if you're going to stick around this joint for much longer, you've gotta wash up. I want you to pull yourself a bath, shave and put on some clean clothes. Okay?"

Cas looks like he's about to bitch along the lines of last morning, that Dean shouldn't do stuff like allowing him to have a nice day. Dean is having none of that and gives him the crazy eyes, the quickest way of telling someone to shut up and rethink their life choices.

"But I don't have any clothes except from the ones I'm wearing," Cas says lamely.

"I figured as much. Why don't you pick something from my drawers to wear while we have your stuff cleaned up?"

Cas finally nods, and there's that. Dean shoves him into the bathroom along with some clothes and tells him it's okay if he uses Dean's own straight-razor. Cas closes the bathroom door, but he doesn't lock it.

Dean finishes off his cup of coffee and listens to the shower going. He's not feeling too great today. The coffee didn't perform a miracle on him as he had hoped, so now he just have to pull it together to make it through the day. His hands are stupid and won't stop shaking. That's going to be a problem, he thinks.

Cas takes his sweet time in the shower, but when he steps out from the bathroom he looks like a brand new man. He looks younger when he's all tidy and clean-shaven. The borrowed shirt and pants are cut for someone taller with broader shoulders and hips than he has, but he looks better nonetheless. Dean's knee-jerk reaction is thinking he looks pretty. Because he does, in his own peculiar way.

"Lookit you, all nice and clean," Dean says and clears his throat. "Hey, will you help me with the dishes, and…?"

Then he stands up too quickly and the world spins and goes beige and fuzzy at the edges. Dean faints before he knows it.

* * *

When Dean wakes up again, he's laying on his own bed. He tries to sit up, but it's a bad decision. His head hurts like a bitch, so he's thinking he hit it when he fainted and fell down. He feels like throwing up. The shakiness is worse. Dean may be sitting down, but he feels wobbly. It isn't the hit to the head, he knows that, but it sure as hell doesn't help. He's taken enough hits to the head to know the difference.

"Dean," Cas says. Dean turns his head and finds himself staring straight into a pair blue eyes, way too close. Cas is sitting by his side, trying to push him back down to the sheets again. "Are you all right? You hit your head when you fell."

"'S'alright," he musters. "I just think I got the flu. I should… I should lay down now." He lets Cas pull up a blanket over him. He even puts a hand on Dean's forehead, like Ellen used to when he was a kid. His hand feels cool and dry. Cas looks worried.

"You have a fever."

"Yup," Dean says after a while. "Cas, you know what? Why don't you take care of the bar today? You know how to open and close up." He coughs, and it hurts bad. "All you have to do is to give people what they ask for. You gotta check that they have the money for what they order first though. Don't forget to lock the doors when everybody's out. It ain't that hard."

"Dean, are you sure? You hit your head badly. I should watch you, so you don't…" Cas sounds broken, like he's about to abandon his own kid, and Dean won't have any of that. It's very nice and all, having someone to care for you this much, but still.

"I'm positive Ellen will kill me if I kept the bar closed on a Friday night if I had perfectly capable workforce at hand," he wheezes. "Tell you what, I'll come down and check on you when I wake up. Is that alright with you? I'll kick your ass if you mess up."

Famous last words. Dean doesn't even hear Cas leave before he falls asleep.


End file.
